Finding My Way
by strawberryfinn
Summary: [Oliver Twist]. The Dodger's out of jail, and he's back with a whole load of adventures. R & R, please.


**Author's Note**: I do not own the characters in _Oliver Twist_ by Charles Dickens. This is a fanfiction based on the Artful Dodger, who happens to be my favorite character. Please read and review.

Prologue:

My God, I never would have realized it if that bloke hadn't come in to prod me with that rather stubby stick of his. Today's the day I'm to be released, finally after all these bloody years. I've waited for this day for the longest time you'd ever imagine, and finally it's time and I've forgotten. Jail's not the most commodious place to reside in, if you don't mind me saying.

Who am I? The Artful Dodger at your service. Need something? I'll be getting that for you. You may have heard of me if you read a book by the name of _Oliver Twist_ by Charles Dickens. You see, the chap pretty much got all his facts straight, except he made me out a lot shorter than I actually am. I resent him for that, but I suppose the bloke did his best—after all, he got his sources from Oliver, and Oliver's still just a child, even though he's been through rather a lot.

I got caught though. I may as bloody well admit it, before you get to asking why I was rotting away in this God-forsaken place in the first place. And of all things, a snuffbox. If I'd been caught with something more valuable, I suppose, things wouldn't be so bad off right now. I'd never been caught before that, imagine. Four years of working, I'd never been as much suspected, and then one snuffbox and it's ruined for me. My cleverness, my reputation, destroyed. Because of that bloody snuffbox.

Ah, the world works in strange ways.

I knew it was wrong, of course. You don't need to inform me of that—of course stealing's wrong, but it's not so bad when you're starving and you can use that money to buy food, now, is it? Now, I didn't go hungry once in jail, but it was worse than starving out on the streets. At least then you're free and not trapped up like a caged animal. Sitting in jail, I thought I might have gone insane. Just those crazy drunkards to talk to, and half the time they were talking complete nonsense, making my head spin. I thought I was going to go crazy and not make it, sort of like Fagin.

They brought Fagin in about two weeks after they brought me in. Poor Fagin, he couldn't last it. Jail sucked his life out of him, the poor man.

It was rather unnerving to see the man who had cared for you most of your life, fed you, clothed you… go mad like that. Completely mad, he was.

He lasted for less than one month, he didn't have his boys with him.

I begged them, I'll let you know that. I begged them to let me stay in there with him, pleaded my bloody heart out, to please stay with Fagin. I needed to help him, he needed his Faithful Dodger there with him.

Of course they didn't listen. They never listen, I should've known that. I was pathetic in my desperation, and poor Fagin.

He just gave up, I reckon. He just broke, couldn't hold on anymore, poor Fagin, old man that he was.

I cried when they took him out. The tears came out, running down my bloody face… and I wanted to stop because crying is pathetic. Bawling's as bad as you can get, believe me. You look so pitiful and right-down wimpy, and that's not what you want on these streets of England. Might be beat up for something like that.

Fagin. I loved Fagin, he was the closest thing I ever had to a father. To a family, I suppose, someone who I could depend on. I don't remember my real family. I suppose there had to be someone who took care of me when I was a child, someone who made sure that I didn't run off by myself and took care of me, but the earliest I can recall was living by myself already. Sometimes the man drove me right mad, the way he was always swindling off me, taking the better share of what I'd filched. But I suppose he didn't deserve that. He was the one who protected me… helped me through these years…

So I cried until I couldn't cry anymore and then my soul turned hard, and I swore that I'd make it for Fagin and wouldn't go right mad like he had. I'd make it out of jail, and then when I got out, I'd filch and lie and steal again, do it for Fagin, who wanted to do it so badly but couldn't because he couldn't survive through jail. Maybe I'd even get my own group of boys and train them in the arts too, show them those proper skills that make an individual, not complete manners and riff-raff like that...

That's what kept me going, I suppose. Not those crazy drunkards who beat me when they wanted my food… not those hysterical screams from the other cells.

Fagin. He kept me alive, and I owe him that. And I'm going to do all the things he couldn't do while he was in jail because he didn't make it.

But first I've got to find my way out here…

_Just an introduction. Review?_


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